Just a Little Hole
by A.j
Summary: Ororo Munroe? Meet George Freeman. StormForge, TTaT insert.


Title: Just a Little Hole   
  
Author: A.j. (Aj2245@yahoo.com)   
  
Rating: PG   
  
Spoilers: Pre Uncanny 300, and Time Tide and Trauma series up to and including   
  
"Start   
  
Spreading the News".   
  
Pairing: Storm/Forge   
  
Archiving: Feel free, although it's definitely going to Greymalkin   
  
(www.1407greymalkinlane.com) and FF.net.   
  
  
  
Notes: My second foray into writing for Time, Tide, and Trauma, and I've   
  
apparently discovered my niche. Fluff. Oh, well. This actually takes off a line   
  
in one of Timesprite's earlier stories about Forge writing Storm letters. Also,   
  
I have no idea whether or not Forge's real name is George. Marvel's being cagey,   
  
and I felt like naming him.   
  
  
  
Also, while this *is* part of a series, I'd like to think it can stand on its   
  
own pretty well. Knowledge of the previous stories (found at the Greymalkin link   
  
above) bring greater depth to the situation, but isn't strictly necessary.   
  
Enjoy, kids.   
  
Big thank you's to Seldear and Timesprite.  
  
  
  
Feedback and constructive criticism is welcomed at the above email.   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Just a Little Hole   
  
by A.j.   
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
The first letter arrived almost six years to the day he'd left her crying in the   
  
rain.   
  
  
  
That she'd been surprised was a rather large understatement. It had come in a   
  
common, legal-sized envelope, a stamp with a purple iris the only splash of   
  
color. Her name and his were written neatly in black ink, precise and perfect in   
  
the way that only engineers could manage.   
  
  
  
She hadn't opened it immediately. She'd been too stunned, to tell the truth.   
  
They'd spoken occasionally in the intervening years, a brief conversation at   
  
social gatherings, or traded looks over a vidscreen. But this was different.   
  
Intimate, because this was him and his thoughts and words and his neat and clean   
  
writing that would tell her - just her - things.   
  
  
  
She'd left it sitting on her dresser for almost a week before pulling it open   
  
with shaking hands.   
  
  
  
The paper of the envelope had torn unevenly, and she'd suppressed the petty   
  
delight at making chaotic that which he'd given order. It was small of her, and   
  
this...   
  
  
  
Again, he managed to surprise her. She didn't know exactly what she'd expected   
  
from the two sheets of graph paper, but it hadn't been what it was.   
  
  
  
He wrote of Fort Peck and the beautiful colors of the sunrises in Montana. Of   
  
his mother and father, and how moved he'd been when his mentor, Naze, had taken   
  
him out into the great wasted plains and the Black Hills and shown him just how   
  
wide the world actually was. He told her about magic and history. In those short   
  
pages, she learned things about this man she'd never known. Never thought to   
  
ask.   
  
  
  
So after she'd read it a fifth time, it had been carefully tucked into a nook in   
  
her desk. Out of sight but close. And when the next letter - speaking of his   
  
grandparents and the gardens of his youth - had come, and the next and the next,   
  
all were put in that place. None lost, none thrown away.   
  
  
  
And when she found herself at the kitchen table one quiet afternoon in   
  
September, she was only a little confused. Because it seemed natural to be   
  
telling him, but not *telling* him, about running across the plains in Kenya, or   
  
that the smell of roasting sausage always made her think of her grandfather and   
  
sitting on his lap when she was two years old. The pen in her hand moved easily   
  
across paper, letting everything out. Sparing nothing of her past, but almost   
  
everything of her present.   
  
  
  
And some time around the sixth month of this little ritual, a cold afternoon in   
  
January, she figures out what this could be. The letters are his life up to that   
  
day six years ago. They're the stories and memories that prompted his, and her   
  
own decision. They hadn't known these things, then, despite the year on the   
  
Earth that was Not-Earth, and the months of romance and adventure. These letters   
  
are everything the other did not know. Could not know, because speaking them   
  
seemed too close an intimacy. Beyond flesh.   
  
  
  
And it's while she's sitting there, stunned at this realization that Nathan   
  
comes into the room and rests a large, comforting hand on her shoulder.   
  
  
  
"Are you okay, Ororo?" His voice is deep and scratchy, like scotch left to   
  
mature maybe a bit too long. She smiles - just a twitch of the lips, really - at   
  
it, an automatic reaction. She doesn't see him very often, with him living in   
  
Oregon and her here in New York. Just when he comes to visit family, or is left   
  
too broken to be alone. Happily, this time is the former.   
  
  
  
"I'm fine, Nathan. Why do you ask?"   
  
  
  
He shrugs and settles his large frame into one of the chairs opposite her, a mug   
  
of coffee between his curled palms. She's amused by its presence for there are   
  
some constants in life, and Nathan and his coffee is one. "Because, despite all   
  
weather reports to the contrary, there's a rather impressive heat lightening   
  
storm going on outside."   
  
  
  
"Yes?"   
  
  
  
"It's January."   
  
  
  
"Oh."   
  
  
  
"Yes." She can't see it, his mouth suddenly occupied with his cup, but she is   
  
very sure he's snickering at her. Just as she knows that her cheeks are bright   
  
red. Damn, evil man.   
  
  
  
"You're married then?" She took some minor glee in the slight choking sound   
  
followed swiftly by coughing. Yes, it had been something of a shock to receive   
  
the wedding announcement; all gaudy and cheerful in a way she'd never ever   
  
associated with either the bride or the groom.   
  
  
  
Strangely, as soon as the liquid cleared his lungs, he's smiling again. Full and   
  
wide, unguarded and joyful in a way she'd never seen him. It looked... good.   
  
  
  
"Drug her kicking and screaming to the altar." If possible, his smile grew. "It   
  
actually really surprised me that she said 'yes'."   
  
  
  
"She doesn't strike me as the type of woman to put much meaning in ceremony."   
  
She ran her fingers across the slightly rough surface of her letter. "We were   
  
all rather shocked when we received the announcement."   
  
  
  
"Yeah, Jean's yelled at me about that at great length." He winced slightly.   
  
"Scott still thinks it's horridly amusing."   
  
  
  
"Well, I suppose it's a rather interesting situation, all things considered."   
  
She shifted, crossing her arms and resting her elbows on the table. "Mothers do   
  
want to attend their children's weddings."   
  
  
  
"True. But this wasn't really about my parents. This was about me and Domino."   
  
He smiled again, his eyes going distant before shaking it off and focusing back   
  
on her. "Dom and I have a long, strange history, Ororo. Some good, some bad.   
  
This marriage was about that. Not the family, or the life, just her and me. Both   
  
of us wasted a lot of time on things that seemed important while they were   
  
happening, but rather stupid in hindsight."   
  
  
  
Feeling slightly dizzy, she nodded. "Oh?"   
  
  
  
This time, his eyes aren't distant, his smile not so soft. He reached over and   
  
ran one metal finger over the creased paper, inadequately blocked by her crossed   
  
arms. "Very, very stupid."   
  
  
  
And then he's gone, moving deep into the house.   
  
  
  
It took her a long time to pick up her pen again. When she did, her writing did   
  
not flow, nor did her words paint pictures. She didn't speak of the past or   
  
family. There, broken in the middle of the page, shaky and unsure she tells him   
  
about her day. Of Nathan's marriage and that she needs a new bookcase because   
  
her mystery novel collection is starting to pile up on her floor. And how little   
  
Rachel enjoys jamming bananas into Scott's glasses and singing silly songs with   
  
Hank. Little things, but not so little. Not really.   
  
  
  
Present. Future. Things they never mentioned came flowing out of her onto the   
  
page.   
  
  
  
It is time.   
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
Two days later, while she was playing blocks with Rachel, he called.   
  
  
  
Bobby had come skidding into the den, all knowing smiles and socked feet to   
  
announce it. He'd been very forgiving about the death glare, and if his hair   
  
stood a little higher and socks shocked a bit, he didn't seem to mind. Nor did   
  
he mind swinging Rachel up into his arms and blowing raspberries on her belly.   
  
  
  
A small thing, but enough to let her know that her 'chore' would be seen to.   
  
  
  
They'd spoken, quiet and awkward. Ill at ease with the sound of each other's   
  
voices, but desperate for it, too. She'd missed it. She'd missed him. And so   
  
when he'd asked, (stuttering on the first word,) if she'd like to meet him in   
  
New York for lunch, she'd said yes.   
  
  
  
Despite the sudden lead balloon in her stomach.   
  
  
  
The call had ended not much later. Soft good-byes pregnant with current and   
  
meaning. No one mentioned it later, but it rained the rest of the afternoon.   
  
  
  
She'd managed to calm it to grey skies on the ride in to New York the next day.   
  
They'd agreed on Reggio's as it served vegetarian cuisine as well as non.   
  
Somehow, despite his near-compulsive earliness, she'd managed to beat him there.   
  
Then again, the commute from Westchester was considerably shorter than from   
  
Virginia.   
  
  
  
The Maitre'd had seated her close to the windows that looked out on the busy   
  
street. She'd been thankful as from this chair she could see the door, musing   
  
silently on how much things had and had not changed. A black woman could get a   
  
table in a fine New York restaurant, but if the same man knew she was   
  
responsible for the weather? But that wasn't important now. No, her hands   
  
weren't shaking because of everything. They were shaking because of the man she   
  
could see walking down the street.   
  
  
  
Sitting there, dressed in blue, she felt very stupid, and strangely very young.   
  
Like a girl of fifteen waiting for her suitor rather than a mature woman well   
  
past her thirtieth year. It was odd and terrifying and wonderful all at the same   
  
time.   
  
  
  
She rose as he approached the table.   
  
  
  
He was still beautiful. His hair tied back in a way she remembered very clearly.   
  
He was wearing a suit, which made it quite apparent that whatever else they were   
  
doing, the government was paying him very well. Unconsciously, she fingered the   
  
silk if her dress, ignoring the possibility that he'd dressed for her, just as   
  
she'd dressed for him.   
  
  
  
"You're early." Oh, she knew that smile. And she knew he knew she knew that   
  
smile. And he was also quite aware what it did to certain parts of her.   
  
  
  
"And you, sir, are a rogue of the finest order. It is good to see you, George."   
  
  
  
His smile changed then. Less suave and more natural, it grew on him transforming   
  
his face. "I never thought you'd start calling me that."   
  
  
  
She shrugged. "Things have changed."   
  
  
  
The smile stayed, and as he gently pushed in her chair his breath was hot on her   
  
ear. It felt good. It felt right. It felt terrifying.   
  
  
  
The waiter was polite and discreet; delivering the specials and wine list with a   
  
professional flair that spoke of theater and auditions yet to be played out. The   
  
ordering and preliminary meal chores were taken care of quickly, and almost too   
  
soon, there's nothing but silence to fill.   
  
  
  
It's strange, she thought. That she has no idea what to say, and he doesn't seem   
  
to mind.   
  
  
  
"I was surprised to read your letter, Ororo. I thought it was going to have to   
  
be me to start this."   
  
  
  
She nodded, and looked out over the street. People were moving to the   
  
complicated rhythm that is singularly New York. A connective beat that governs   
  
life and death and existence completely. "It was time."   
  
  
  
He nods, still smiling. "Maybe. I'm glad. Would you like to hear about the   
  
boring meeting I'm missing?"   
  
  
  
And so he talked. Each word breaking down the blocks and bricks of walls she   
  
hadn't even known she'd possessed. It hurt, to listen to this man. To his life   
  
and what he'd created without her. She'd done the same without him. Built   
  
something good and hers. But not precisely whole.   
  
  
  
Looking across the table, she knew why.   
  
  
  
"I missed you." The sound of her voice surprised them both. She opened her mouth   
  
to say more, but was interrupted by the graceful waiter who slipped in,   
  
arranging their salads perfectly and offering up their wine.   
  
  
  
Outside, raindrops began to spatter the windows; their short staccato echoing   
  
the clatter of the plates as the waiter settled them on the table. His only   
  
slightly fake smile a goodbye before he disappeared between the long linen   
  
tablecloths.   
  
  
  
"I missed you too, Ororo."   
  
  
  
"What is this?" She doesn't mean for her voice to shake like that. Or for her   
  
eyes to sting and blur in the suddenly dim lighting.   
  
  
  
But it was him, and the smile in his eyes was as it always had been. Soft.   
  
Comfortable. So beautifully tempting. So when he shook his head, his lips   
  
quirking and said, "Nothing you don't want it to be Ororo," she nodded and   
  
picked up her fork.   
  
  
  
And because it was her, and this was *him*, when their lips met over the red   
  
checkered cloth and the remains of lunch, the sun was shining.   
  
  
  
-fin- 


End file.
